


Not Today

by stillwaters01



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Study, Christine Chapel is an awesome nurse, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Life in sickbay, McCoy is an awesome doctor, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy pays a heavy price when he refuses to leave a patient.  </p><p>(Originally published 1/1/11)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

 

 

“That’s odd,” McCoy remarked moments after materializing on the outskirts of Shiforr’s capital city.

 

“What’s that Bones?” Kirk asked absently, already moving downhill.

 

“There’s no one here,” McCoy said, following slowly, eyes drifting along the surrounding mountain range.

 

“We have beamed down six point four kilometers from the city Doctor,” Spock replied.  “The Shiforr government is aware of our need to beam in at this location in order to bypass the planet’s magnetic clouds; however their culture only dictates greeting foreigners once.  As the council met us here three weeks ago, there was no need for them to do so again.”

 

McCoy shook his head.  “I’m not talking about a welcome party Spock,” he frowned, “I mean, there’s _no one_ ,” he gestured toward the low, winding path carved into the ascending rock.  “I _never_ saw that path empty last time we were here; there were always villagers back and forth from the shrines.”

 

Kirk followed McCoy’s gaze, shading his eyes with one hand.  “Everyone’s probably in the city for the ceremony, Bones,” he offered.  He paused for a moment before turning back down the hill with a pointed, “Like _we_ should be.”

 

McCoy’s frown deepened as he dropped into silence, eyes continuing to watch the mountains as he walked.  Kirk and Spock led the way, keeping up a quiet conversation on the upcoming celebration of the new Shiforr government Starfleet had helped organize.     

 

A kilometer later, McCoy’s voice broke the conversation.  “I don’t like it Jim.”

 

Kirk and Spock shared a quick look before turning around.  McCoy had stopped a few steps back, squinting up at the sky with his hands tapping lightly behind his back.  He rocked slightly on his heels, lips pressed together and quirked slightly to the right, face furrowed in thought.

 

“Care to expand on that, Doctor?” Kirk asked drily, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his eyes as he moved back to McCoy’s position.

 

The furrows in McCoy’s face deepened.  “Something’s just not right.”  His eyes never left the surrounding mountain range.

 

“Specifics, Doctor,” Spock sighed.  “Vague, emotionally-based declarations do not make facts.”

 

McCoy’s eyes flashed as he whipped a glare at Spock’s expectant, raised eyebrow.  “And if I _had_ those facts, Mr. Spock, I’d _share_ them,” he spat before his eyes softened, angry fire dimming to weary worry.  “I’m sorry, Spock,” he sighed, unclasping his hands to rub at his face, “it’s just….we’ve been _through_ this.  I know when something doesn’t strike me right…..and somethin’ heah just doesn’t,” his accent flared as stressed eyes resumed scanning the mountaintops for answers to the churning in his gut.

 

Kirk’s eyes immediately lost all illusion of humor.  He knew, many times over, that McCoy’s gut was as reliable and accurate as both Spock’s logic and his own personal ‘red alerts.’ 

 

Spock seemed to agree as he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.  “I apologize Doctor.  Please continue.”  McCoy was correct; they _had_ been through this particular discussion, and when Norman had turned out to be one of Mudd’s androids, McCoy had scored something of a victory for illogical, human intuition.

 

“What is it Bones?” Kirk’s voice was low with concern as he stepped closer to McCoy, trying to follow the physician’s gaze.

 

McCoy’s staccato bouncing radiated frustration.  “I don’t know Jim.  I can’t quite pinpoint it…..”  He tore his focus from the landscape, meeting Kirk’s eyes with an unspoken plea.

 

Kirk nodded, hearing the silent call for caution in the wide blue eyes.  He drew his phaser slowly, not needing to look to know that Spock was mirroring the action.  “Phasers on stun,” he ordered with resigned, steely preparation.

 

Spock shifted with Kirk to flank the unarmed physician, taking a place two steps ahead of McCoy.  “Ready Captain,” he confirmed.

 

Kirk sighed.  “All right.  Eyes open,” he said, meeting McCoy’s distracted nod before leading the way down the hill.

 

Five minutes later, as the mountain range curved to the right and the arid landscape became a labyrinth of fallen rocks, they found the first body.

 

“Jim!” McCoy hissed, pointing toward a crumpled figure alongside a cracked boulder. 

 

Kirk put a restraining hand on McCoy’s arm.  “I see, Bones,” he kept his voice low, squeezing McCoy’s arm tightly in an unspoken ‘don’t even think about moving yet.’  He glanced at Spock who nodded once before moving smoothly forward with Kirk, searching the surrounding area as McCoy moved slowly between the protection of the raised weapons, eyes only for his potential patient, hands already running along the tricorder in preparation for the first scan.

 

“All right Bones,” Kirk nodded McCoy forward as they reached the still figure.  McCoy fell to his knees at the man’s side, hands reaching for Shiforr pulse points even as the tricorder whirred through an initial assessment.  McCoy looked down as the scanner beeped, brows furrowing, before leaning forward to turn the Shiforr onto his back.

 

Kirk peered over McCoy’s shoulder to the tricorder readout.  “Bones,” he said, voice soft with sad curiosity, “he’s dead.”

 

“And that same machine said _you_ were dead after I gave you that neuroparalyzer,” McCoy retorted, falling into silence as he gently eased the Shiforr back.  His mouth tightened at the dark stain on the abdomen, the ragged hole half-covered by a post-mortem patch of blood-thickened, sandy gruel.  His hands began moving through a systematic assessment.  Another minute passed before McCoy sat back on his heels with a sigh.  “I’m sorry Jim,” he glanced up apologetically.  “We didn’t have much data on Shiforr anatomy to put into the scanners to begin with, so I couldn’t trust….”

 

Kirk shook his head, cutting off McCoy’s apology.  “My fault, Bones,” he insisted.  “I’ve known you long enough not to question how you handle a patient,” he smiled ruefully, “and, as you just pointed out, machines _can_ be wrong.”  He tossed a sidelong glance at Spock.  “Right, Mr. Spock?” he grinned mischievously back at McCoy.

 

Spock gave a long-suffering sigh.  “Captain, there are more pressing matters at hand.”

 

Kirk forced himself to sober.  “Of course, Mr. Spock,” he nodded, unable to completely extinguish the sparkle in his eyes.

 

“It would be illogical to pursue years of medical education only to defer to a computer,” Spock finally pointed out, almost as an afterthought.

 

Kirk smiled in memory.  “ _Practical, Captain?  Perhaps.  But not desirable.  Computers make excellent and efficient servants, but I have no wish to serve under them.”_

McCoy raised an eyebrow with the same memory.  “I _think_ that’s a compliment,” he mused with a shrug, pulling himself to his feet.

 

“Simply a fact, Doctor,” Spock corrected, dark eyes shining briefly before tightening back into focus.  “What is your assessment?” he asked.

 

McCoy straightened.  “Tearing, penetrating trauma – even if the weapon _hadn’t_ shredded his heart, the resulting hemorrhage alone would have killed him.”

 

“Most likely the spear carried by Shiforr warriors,” Spock extrapolated.

 

“Agreed,” McCoy nodded.

 

“And whoever killed him took it,” Kirk noted, circling the rock, looking for the dead Shiforr’s spear.  “All right, let’s keep moving,” he decided, pressing on through the open desert ahead.

 

Another turn in the landscape yielded four more bodies in the same condition.  McCoy straightened up from the shade of the blood-soaked boulder with a weary sigh.  He squinted in the harsh midday sun.  “There’s another,” he pointed to a prone body far from the meager shade of the mountains and frequent rocks.  “Dammit Jim, what in _blazes_ is goin’ on here?” he scrubbed a hand across his face, the resulting streak of blood-thickened sandy sludge a stark contrast to flashing blue.

 

“I don’t know,” Kirk murmured, before straightening slightly, voice strengthening as he vowed, “but I intend to find out.”

 

McCoy laid a gentle hand on Kirk’s arm before trotting slowly out to the next body. 

 

Kirk looked back down at the dead Shiforr warriors.  “Thoughts Spock?” he asked, waving his phaser arm around the red-stained rock.

 

“This planet has long been divided between the Shiforri and Shiforra tribes,” Spock recalled.  “This new government brings two groups with a significantly violent history together under one, integrated society.  It would appear that there are those who do not agree with such a change.”

 

“A coup?” Kirk asked.  He paused, looking around again before adding, “Or just going back to the way things were?”

 

“The latter, I should think,” Spock said, “however, we require significantly more information than we have at present.”

 

Kirk nodded, glancing toward McCoy’s crouched figure in the distance.  He squinted hard against the sun, noting McCoy’s sudden rush of movement.  “Looks like Bones might have someone we can ask,” he pointed toward the slight movement of the Shiforr’s arm and McCoy’s subsequent reach toward the warrior’s abdomen.  “Come on,” he jerked his head toward the physician’s location.

 

McCoy had just turned the seemingly deceased Shiforr onto his back when the warrior’s arm moved weakly.  McCoy dropped the tricorder onto the sand with a muffled curse regarding its usefulness and began his hands-on assessment.  “Easy son, let me see,” he soothed, taking the Shiforr’s arm in a light grasp and laying it back at the warrior’s side.  He probed the jagged wound gently, trying to see past the thick sandy sludge caking the site.  The Shiforr coughed weakly and the wound exploded, showering McCoy’s hands with a surging tide of hot blood.  “Dammit,” McCoy muttered, applying pressure firmly with one hand while rooting in his kit for pressure bandages with the other.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized as the Shiforr tossed his head weakly at the pressure.  “I’m a doctor….a _com’apoa_ ,” he recalled the native equivalent.  “I know it hurts, but I need to slow the bleeding,” he explained, throwing a pressure bandage to the wound under his saturated right hand.  He set the tricorder for a chemical comparison scan and began digging for a hypo of fibrephyton.  “I’ll give you something for the pain just as soon as I figure out what’ll actually _work_ for you,” he continued, glaring at the tricorder as if he could speed up the scan by force of will alone. 

 

A shadow fell over him.  “Why do you speak to Shiforri in such a manner?”

 

McCoy started, cursing himself for assuming the shadow was either Kirk or Spock.  He squinted up to find a Shiforra warrior, feet light and ready on the dry earth, each hand grasping a solid, heavy spear.  “What manner?” he asked distractedly, eyes flying to the beep of the tricorder.

 

“You speak as the _com’apoa_ do,” the Shiforra said.

 

***

 

Spock’s eyes, accustomed to the harshness of Vulcan’s sun, saw the warrior approach McCoy before Kirk could squint the distance into renewed focus.  “Captain,” he pointed ahead.

 

Kirk began to run.

 

“Captain, if you approach a Shiforr warrior in such a manner, he _will_ feel threatened,” Spock hurriedly put a hand out, stopping Kirk mid-stride.

 

“Spock, that warrior has two spears,” Kirk realized nervously.  “Bones is unarmed.  If the Shiforr attacks…..”

 

“Something he will be more likely to do if surprised by a running assault,” Spock pointed out.

 

Kirk growled under his breath before taking up Spock’s quickened, but even step.

 

***

 

“That’s because I _am_ one,” McCoy pointed out, grabbing the fibrephyton and injecting a dose just above the wound.  “All right son, that’s to help slow the bleeding.  Now, let’s see what we can do for the pain,” he focused back on his patient.

 

“You will look at me when I speak, outsider,” the Shiforra demanded.

 

“Look, this man is bleeding to death,” McCoy reminded the Shiforra, “and I can’t _treat_ him without _looking_ at him.”

 

The Shiforra shifted, raising a spear and pointing it at McCoy.  “Let him bleed,” he growled.

 

McCoy spared a look up.  “Excuse me?” his eyebrows climbed.

 

“He is Shiforri,” the Shiforra said as if that were explanation enough.  “He will die as the others did on my spear.”

 

McCoy’s eyes narrowed.  “I understand that your two tribes don’t get along, but I’m not going to just let this man die.”

 

The spear moved closer to McCoy’s throat.  “You will leave him,” the Shiforra pronounced with slow, stern clarity.

 

***

 

“Spock!” Kirk shouted, watching the Shiforra raise the spear against McCoy.  He aimed his phaser.

 

“Captain, we are not yet within phaser range,” Spock said, dark eyes flashing with mirrored concern.

 

***

 

McCoy glared at the Shiforra briefly before reaching back for the next hypo.  “I will not,” he replied, echoing the warrior’s tone.

 

The Shiforra placed the spear under McCoy’s chin and forced his head up.  “He is Shiforri and you will not help him.”

 

McCoy administered the pain medication with a soft explanation to the rapidly fading Shiforri.  He stood up with slow, barely controlled anger.  “I don’t care _who_ or _what_ he is,” McCoy was desperately trying not to shout in deference to his decompensating patient.  “I’m a doctor and I am going to treat that wound.”  He moved to kneel again.

 

“Those who treat the enemy shall die like the enemy,” the Shiforra growled, tracking McCoy’s movement with the spear, keeping him firmly at the end of the tarnished metal point as the physician resumed his place at the Shiforri’s side.

 

“Then kill me,” McCoy growled back with a defiant glare, applying another pressure bandage to the Shiforri’s wound. “Kill me or let me save this man’s life.”

 

***

 

Kirk watched McCoy sink back to his knees and resume his treatment.

 

The Shiforra shifted…..

 

…And all thought of careful approach was thrown away.

 

Kirk began to run at the same moment Spock took off.

 

They weren’t going to make it.

 

The Shiforra lunged.  With the spear in his right hand, he impaled the injured Shiforri. 

 

With his left, he impaled McCoy.

 

The warrior thrust the spear deep into McCoy’s abdomen before angling the weapon up and to the right. 

 

All was silent but for the faint echo of Kirk’s panicked shout.

 

“Let this be a lesson to those who treat the enemy,” the Shiforra shouted as Kirk and Spock ran at him.  He kicked McCoy off the spear, plunged the weapon alongside the other spear in the Shiforri’s abdomen, and stood in ready challenge.

 

Kirk lowered his phaser, clenched his fists, and ran at the warrior.  A strong grip held him back.

 

“Go attend to McCoy,” Spock said firmly.

 

Kirk’s eyes flashed, a host of emotions and desires raging for control.

 

“Captain, I will deal with the Shiforra,” Spock promised, the icy undertone a very human promise.  “See to McCoy.”

 

Kirk finally shook himself back to his senses, nodding once before sprinting to McCoy’s side.  He skidded to his knees, frantically waving aside the resulting cloud of dirt to get a better look.

 

“Oh, Bones,” he groaned.

 

McCoy lay flat on his back, gasping weakly, blue eyes wide and cloudy with shock, reaching weakly for the wound.  Kirk swallowed back bile as blood shot up from the ragged hole, pulsing in time with McCoy’s racing heart.  The physician finally succeeded in moving his hands to the wound where he tried to put what little strength he had left into staunching the flow.

 

Kirk gently moved McCoy’s hands and pressed his own hands over the wound, shuddering at the rush of bright, warm blood through his tight fingers.

 

“Harder,” McCoy’s thin voice croaked.

 

“What?  Bones?” Kirk asked breathlessly, leaning over his friend’s face.

 

“Need to push harder,” McCoy struggled to focus.  “Ar….” He bit back a cry.  “Arterial bleed,” he finished, screwing his eyes shut tight against the agony.

 

Kirk pushed harder, biting back a cry of his own at McCoy’s anguished groan.

 

“Where’s Spock?” McCoy gasped, eyes opening briefly to track the area.

 

Kirk looked up at the sound of phaser fire, just in time to see Spock lower his weapon as the Shiforra crumpled to the ground.  He resisted the wildly irrational urge to laugh.  It wasn’t like he’d thought that Spock would _fight_ the Shiforra…..except…..well, maybe he sort of did.  The simple logic of a phaser on stun hadn’t even occurred to Kirk at that moment.  Spock verified that the Shiforra was incapacitated before sprinting to McCoy’s other side. 

 

“Here, Doctor,” Spock replied.

 

“Damn Vulcan ears,” McCoy whispered between gasps.  His rapidly dulling eyes shifted between Kirk and Spock before he came to a decision and spoke again.  “Jim…..keep pressure.  Spock…..five ccs fibrephyton….close to the wound as you can…..” he broke off with a rattling wheeze.

 

As Kirk threw his full weight behind keeping his best friend’s blood _in_ his body, he suddenly realized what McCoy was doing.  The physician knew he was rapidly losing consciousness and that they couldn’t contact the Enterprise or beam out from their current location due to the planet’s magnetic clouds.  They would have to return to the beam-in site which was just over a kilometer away.  Ever the physician, McCoy was dictating a treatment plan – _his_ treatment plan – and delegating the tasks appropriately.  He knew that Spock was more comfortable with administering hypos and setting calculations, and despite that fact that Spock was _physically_ stronger, he knew that Kirk would divert his raging emotions into an even greater strength, funneling it into hands that so desperately needed something to do.

 

Kirk swallowed again as Spock administered the injection.  “What about pain Bones?” he asked thickly.

 

McCoy shook his head weakly, eyes already closing.  “Fibrephyton clots locally…..” he began to explain, voice fading to nothing.

 

“Pain medication must be carried through the bloodstream to be effective,” Spock picked up the explanation softly.

 

Kirk looked down the blood still pulsing around his hands and struggled to keep his emotions in check.

 

McCoy’s nod was the barest shift of his head.  The blue eyes were almost completely clouded, but Kirk could still see the truth there – the verification of Kirk’s realization, the knowledge that he would soon be unconscious, and beyond that….the knowledge that he wouldn’t wake up.  McCoy was a doctor – he knew in excruciating detail just how long he had with an arterial bleed and abdominal trauma.  He wasn’t going to make it to the beam-out point…..and as his eyes shifted slowly between Kirk and Spock once more, Kirk saw the final truth that nearly shattered his control.

 

McCoy was saying goodbye.

 

“You hold on, Bones,” Kirk’s growl shook as he willed more strength into his blood-soaked hands.

 

Spock’s eyes shone with barely concealed emotion.

 

“Bones,” Kirk choked.

 

McCoy rallied to meet his friends’ eyes one more time.  He locked gazes with Kirk, struggling to bring the face into focus through the fog of hemorrhage.  He smiled weakly before shifting his gaze to Spock.  “Every…..ten…..minutes….” his eyes flickered to the empty hypo in Spock’s hand before sliding closed, his body sagging into unconsciousness.

 

Spock straightened with sudden, renewed purpose.  He prepared another fibrephyton hypo and reached for McCoy.  “Jim,” he said with soft urgency, “I will carry McCoy to the beam-out point.”

 

Kirk looked up, eyes red with raw anguish.  “Spock?” he asked, brow furrowing.

 

“The fibrephyton can be given every ten minutes,” Spock clarified McCoy’s last words.

 

A hopeful smile touched Kirk’s grief-stricken face.  “He’s going to try,” he nodded down at McCoy.

 

“Indeed,” Spock confirmed the interpretation of McCoy’s explanation of the anti-hemorrhage medication.  “But time is of the essence.”

 

Kirk gulped down a breath and shifted back on his heels so Spock could scoop McCoy into his arms before resuming full pressure on the wound as they began to run.

 

“It’s a lot slower,” Kirk huffed several minutes later as the beam-out point came into view, glancing down at his blood-caked hands.

 

Spock’s eyes quickly moved from relief to worry.  Kirk cursed softly under his breath.  He reached for McCoy’s carotid.

 

The dead don’t bleed.

 

Spock’s eyes snapped into tentative relief at Kirk’s shaky breath.

 

McCoy was still, somehow, hanging on. 

 

Spock laid McCoy on the ground as they reached the beam-out point, administering the second dose of fibrephyton as Kirk shifted one hand off McCoy’s abdomen to send an emergency beam-up signal to the Enterprise.

 

“Almost there Bones,” Kirk whispered roughly.  “Just hold on.....”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Spock and McCoy's discussion regarding Mudd's android Norman and McCoy knowing when something doesn't strike him right refers to the episode "I, Mudd."  
> \- McCoy’s reference to giving Kirk a neuroparalyzer refers to the episode “Amok Time.”  
> \- The remembered quote regarding Spock’s feelings on computers refers to the episode “The Ultimate Computer.”  
> \- The planet and native people are referred to as “Shiforr.” There are two major, divided tribes – the “Shiforri” and the “Shiforra.” The native population are generally referred to as “Shiforr” unless one knows exactly which tribe they belong to, in which case the correct tribal designation is used. In this case, the natives are called “Shiforr” until the Shiforra warrior makes a statement that clarifies which tribe he and the injured native belong to, allowing the crew to properly define them.  
> \- Yes, McCoy would be out of luck with such injuries today, but this is Star Trek and the medical team will clarify some of the future factors that gave him a chance at making it that far with an arterial bleed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy pays a heavy price when he refuses to leave a patient.

 

 

Two weeks into her assignment as Head Nurse aboard the Enterprise, Christine Chapel’s trauma gear had been drenched in blood as she ran her first ‘routine mission gone to hell’ triage.  A seasoned security officer with a sucking chest wound grabbed her arm, wild eyes desperate with a question that needed no voice.  The officer’s lips were cyanotic, consciousness nearly a memory as Christine hurriedly applied a seal and shouted for a chest tube.  The man was dying in front of her….. but his eyes weren’t asking if he _was_ dying; they were asking if he was _going_ to die.

 

In the present march of death, he was asking about the future….

 

….And in the present, as her new CMO reached to her side, chest tube kit in hand, Christine had replied, “Not today.”

 

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wondered what the _hell_ she had been thinking.  She couldn’t promise him that he would live or that their skill and technology would be enough to reverse the damage…..and she certainly wasn’t cocky enough to believe that they could save everyone.  She had taken an oath early on in her nursing career that she would never lie to a patient, and here she was…….

 

…..Then she looked up and saw McCoy’s soft smile, heard him repeat her words to the gasping man as the hypo hissed a local anesthetic and the chest tube slid into place….and she _understood_.  Through McCoy, she suddenly realized that those two words hadn’t been over-confident arrogance, a desperate attempt to rally energy, or a comforting distraction…they had been a _promise_ : a promise to use all her knowledge, skill, and humanity, a promise to help him fight, a promise to be there to whatever end.  It was a promise to her patient, a promise to herself, and something of a prayer – not to a specific deity, but….almost a hope to the universe itself.  A plea from within the close confines of metal hurtling through the unpredictable vastness of space – for life to triumph for just one more day…..and if that couldn’t be, then for death to come with some measure of peace.

 

As the last patient was treated and the sickbay staff changed shifts, McCoy had come up to her on his way out and nodded toward the security officer’s bed.  “Another day,” he said softly, before giving her a weary, but thankful smile.  “Welcome aboard.”  

 

It was at that moment that her mantra had been born.  Those two words bound her to her new staff – it became a rallying cry for her nurses as they made their rounds, started their shifts, and bolted into transporter rooms with emergency kits and focused training.  And when that same security officer died a year later, pain controlled, readiness in his eyes, and a silent ‘today’ on his lips, it blossomed into a sickbay-wide tradition.  Five years later, McCoy still looked to Christine to end their pre-mission medical briefings with those two words.

 

Not today.

 

Mara had jokingly come to call it “the sickbay promise.”  It became a comforting routine, a reminder of what they all stood for, and what they would do together. 

 

And so it was with the echo of that promise still on the air that Christine sat down at the nursing desk the morning of the Shiforr mission and tackled a backlog of charting.

 

Half an hour after the landing party had beamed down, Christine nearly jumped as Sulu approached her desk with a vague question on sickbay’s readiness status.  Knowing that he had the conn, Christine was about to ask why he hadn’t just commed her with the question…….until she saw Sulu’s eyes drifting toward the operating rooms.  Her own eyes narrowed.  “Something I should know, Mr. Sulu?” she demanded.

 

“What?  Oh, no, no, sorry Christine,” Sulu jolted back into the present.

 

Christine readjusted her tone to Sulu’s use of her first name.  “What is it, Hikaru?” she returned in kind.  “What’s wrong?”

 

Sulu sighed, visibly relaxing with the comfort of familiarity.  “I don’t know,” he admitted, ducking his head, embarrassed.  “I just have a bad feeling.”

 

Christine nodded toward the operating rooms.  “That we’ll need _those_?” she sought clarification.

 

Sulu nodded reluctantly.

 

Christine immediately went on alert.  “Have we heard from the landing party or the Shiforr government?” she asked.

 

Sulu shook his head.  “Nothing so far, but that’s to be expected with the magnetic storms over the capital.”  His face twisted with frustration.  “I know it sounds silly, but I just…..felt like I should come tell you.”

 

“It’s not silly,” Christine squeezed his arm gently.  “I appreciate it.  It’s better to be prepped for a surgery we never have to perform.  I’ll go talk to Dr. M’Benga and the other nurses,” she assured him.

 

Sulu smiled.  “Thanks, Christine.”  Some of the worry cleared from his eyes as he let out a relieved breath and returned to the Bridge.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Christine got another surprise as Uhura walked into sickbay with an apologetic smile.  “I’m sorry, Chris, I don’t want to get in your way,” she motioned toward the busy staff flowing through pre-op and surgery.

 

“No, it’s fine,” Christine assured her, guiding the communications officer to the desk and sinking into her chair.  “I’m guessing this is about Sulu?”

 

Uhura’s smile was guarded.  “In a way,” she said.  “I wanted to thank you for listening…..he was nervous about coming down here.”

 

“Nervous?  Why?” Christine asked, confused.  “We’re not _that_ horrible down here, are we?” she tried to ease the sudden tension as she processed Uhura’s clarifier ‘in a way’ against the growing worry in the dark eyes.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Mara grinned as she passed by, face buried in a supply PADD.

 

Uhura chuckled lightly before the expressive eyes dimmed once more.  Christine frowned, feeling as if she was just on the edge of walking into some horror that everyone else around her could already see.  “‘Shi’ is the Japanese word for ‘death.’  The number four is sometimes pronounced the same way so it’s considered unlucky,” Uhura said softly.

 

Christine’s eyes widened as she leaned further back in the chair.  “Shiforr.  No wonder Sulu’s been so stressed,” she breathed.  “It must feel like he’s orbiting a planet of death.”

 

Uhura shifted on her perch at the edge of the desk.  “He’s embarrassed.  He insists it’s just superstition, that he should be able to get past it…..” 

 

The ship-wide comm shot to life, cutting Uhura off.  Christine’s initial surprise at Scotty’s voice dissipated quickly as professional training kicked in over sudden, gnawing dread.  “Attention all hands, this is Chief Engineer Scott.  Clear all decks between the main transporter room and sickbay.  Repeat, clear all decks between the main transporter room and sickbay.”

 

Uhura’s eyes widened as she spun for the nearest comm to call the Bridge.  Christine launched into emergency protocol, organizing the nursing staff as M’Benga rushed to her side, passing over a second tricorder.

 

“Mr. Roberts, report,” Uhura barked into the comm, the unease at not being there for an emergency call written plainly across her face.  

 

“This can’t be good,” Mara was muttering as she rushed by the gurney being wheeled just in front of the sickbay doors.

 

Christine had to agree.  If the landing party hadn’t called for a medical team to meet them in the transporter room, the injury had to have been sudden and catastrophic, with the landing party likely in immediate danger.  Based on the barely concealed panic in Scotty’s voice, she already knew they were looking at an initially critical patient being transported a distance they couldn’t afford to travel.

 

Uhura looked up, relaying that Roberts had received an emergency beam-up signal – no direct voice transmission and no incident report.  Christine rushed over to the comm.  “Chapel to Transporter Room.  Mr. Scott, what’s going on?”

 

“Lass, they’re bringin’ him down now.  Whatever blood you’ve got down there, he’s gonna need it,” Scotty’s shaky voice responded.

 

Dammit.  She hated when they couldn’t communicate with McCoy while he was en route – his initial orders and assessment saved a lot of time once the patient hit sickbay.  “Which one, Scotty?  The Captain or Mr. Spock?” Christine demanded.  ‘Blood’ was too vague – she knew Kirk and Spock’s blood type by heart, but she needed to know which one to pull.

 

Scotty’s reply was cut off by two figures bursting into sickbay with a panicked shout for help.

 

Christine’s stomach clenched.  A shout for help. 

 

Not a Georgia-thickened rush of orders.

 

Uhura gasped.

 

Christine looked up……

 

………and into the cold face of superstition turned reality.

 

Kirk was cradling McCoy’s limp body to his chest, jaw clenched tight, wild hazel eyes bright with shock.  Spock ran alongside the Captain and slightly to the front, desperately attempting to staunch the blood pulsing from the physician’s abdomen, dark eyes swimming with unshielded anguish. 

 

Pulsing. 

 

Arterial.

 

Abdomen.

 

_Shit._

 

Words began flying through the air as Kirk and Spock relinquished McCoy to the already moving gurney.  ‘B+’, ‘full support’, ‘fibrephyton injection’, ‘pressure packing.’  Christine’s world narrowed to red - red on blue, on gold, on hands, arms, chests, abdomens, faces…..red everywhere except where it was supposed to be.

 

Kirk’s voice was gray through the red……the white of shock melding with the black of despair.  “We started finding the bodies outside of town.  Bones was treating an injured Shiforri when a Shiforra came out from the rocks and said that anyone helping the enemy would die like the enemy.  Bones refused to move…..” Kirk’s voice broke, “….and they stabbed him.  Speared him straight through, then kicked him off.”  His hands clenched angrily.  “Bastards couldn’t even give him that chance…..”

 

Christine sighed, a heavy mixture of frustration, admiration, and understanding.  Of _course_ he wouldn’t move.   

 

M’Benga stopped the gurney halfway to surgery.  “Mara, I need a laser scalpel,” he ordered as he lifted his hands from the wound and began removing the pressure packing they had just applied.

 

Christine’s stomach dropped as she realized what was coming.  The monitors were screaming, McCoy was hemorrhaging faster than they could pump the blood in, Elise was already intubating and placing the life support sensors as his vitals continued to crash, and M’Benga knew they weren’t even going to make it into surgery unless they stopped the bleeding NOW. 

 

Christine barely had time to warn Kirk and Spock before M’Benga began cutting into McCoy’s abdomen.  Kirk, all tense muscles and anguished shock, seemed to struggle between rushing the gurney and swaying on his feet.  Spock’s steady arm both held him back and kept him upright, lingering on for an emotional support that the Vulcan would never admit that he needed too.  Uhura quietly moved to Kirk’s other side and laid a gentle hand on his arm, manicured fingers squeezing trembling flesh.  Christine couldn’t help but ache at the sight of someone besides McCoy taking that supportive position.  She watched Kirk give the barest of nods of acceptance and tried to ignore the shudder that went through him as he glanced at Uhura, her uniform red seeping into the monochromatic reminder of life’s fragility currently spattered across his chest. 

 

As Christine held the scanner over the site to pinpoint the bleed with one hand and prepped the artery clamp with the other, she found her mind drifting.  From the moment she had met Leonard McCoy, Christine knew that the same passion and dedication to life that illuminated every bounce, rant, and flash of stunning blue would also be the thing to extinguish that light from this world.  And as positive as Kirk and Spock’s presence was, it did nothing to ease her concern.  Neither Kirk, Spock, nor McCoy would leave this world without the other two at his side.  Christine knew that just as surely as she knew McCoy’s oath would lead him here.

 

M’Benga pulled his hand from McCoy’s abdomen, grabbed the arterial clamp, and locked it into place.

 

“Lock confirmed,” Christine reported, eyes flying over the scanner readouts as the blood flow finally slowed.

 

M’Benga grabbed more pressure packing and buried his hands back into the rest of the wound.  “Go!” he pushed toward surgery.

 

Christine rushed alongside the gurney, dumping the scanner on the mattress so she could swap out another depleted blood unit for a new one.

 

Southern stubbornness.

 

Boundless compassion.

 

Hippocrates. 

 

A giver of life on a planet of death.

 

She always knew it would end like this.

 

And as Christine glanced back at Kirk and Spock through the closing doors of the surgical suite, she had only one thought…..

 

Not today.

 

…..Please don’t let it be today.

 

***

 

Three hundred years ago, Christine Chapel would have been speaking to Kirk and Spock in the morgue rather than the ICU - McCoy would have been dead.

 

She watched as Kirk bowed and Spock stiffened under her words.  Laceration of the abdominal aorta, liver, and intestines.  Massive blood loss.  Three arrests on the table.  Their eyes closed as M’Benga’s soft lilt took over, detailing the potential sequelae: multiple organ dysfunction from decreased blood flow, cerebral deficits from lack of oxygenation, peritonitis progressing to sepsis, the continued struggle to replace lost volume….and, still hanging painfully in the air around them, the very real probability that those three hundred years wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference in the end.

 

Death.

 

Kirk sank into the bedside chair with a desperate shake of his head.  His raw eyes took in the monitors and machines surrounding McCoy, lingered on the physician’s nearly translucent face for a moment, then turned back to M’Benga and Christine.

 

Christine was prepared for the grief, the doubt, the anger.  What she _wasn’t_ prepared for was what followed – for when James T. Kirk, the man who had made a career out of taking the ‘no’ out of ‘no-win’ situations, looked like he had just lost - lost not only his best friend, but the very thought of a light beyond the darkness.

 

“Dammit Bones, you _promised_ ,” Kirk whispered fiercely, dropping his head onto McCoy’s arm.

 

 _You promised_.

 

Christine swallowed back her own grief and rallied her cry.  With _her_ promise, _their_ promise in her heart, she stepped forward.  All wasn’t lost….yet.….and as she worked to keep up her end, _someone_ had to have hope.  “You know…..you two saved his life down there,” she said quietly.

 

Kirk’s head shot up, eyes shifting from Christine to McCoy in obvious disbelief, as Spock’s eyebrow shot up at the sheer illogic of her statement.  “Of course,” Kirk muttered darkly, gesturing at McCoy.  “Bones is doing _great_.”

 

“Captain, the only reason Leonard is here right now _has_ to be because of you two,” Christine insisted.  “A few generations ago, the only way he _might_ have survived to this point would be if it had happened right here in sickbay.  Our surgical techniques and medical protocols may be far more advanced now, but there’s still not much we can do in the field to stabilize arterial lacerations without immediate surgery.  I saw you keeping pressure on the wound Mr. Spock,” Christine focused on the Vulcan, “and you mentioned a fibrephyton injection.  What did you do?” she prompted quietly.

 

Spock began a concise report on McCoy’s instructions, Kirk’s constant pressure, the fibrephyton injections, and, with the assistance of Vulcan hearing during their rush to the physician’s side, McCoy’s words to the Shiforra.  Kirk slowly began to chime in with the rest of the story, from McCoy’s initial feeling, to the discovery of the bodies, to McCoy’s promise masked in final instruction.  “I don’t understand why it stopped working,” Kirk referred to the fibrephyton.  “The bleeding was almost stopped by the time we beamed out, but as soon as we materialized back on the Enterprise…..” he glanced down at his hands, still seeing red, “…it started up again like it had just happened.”  He sighed heavily, recalling his hurried order in the transporter room for Spock to take over applying pressure while he grabbed McCoy and raced past a still-shocked Scotty.

 

“Fibrephyton is a very useful local coagulant for venous injuries,” M’Benga spoke up softly.  “Although there has been some research into modifying it for use in arterial cases, it has not shown much promise – the high pressure of the arterial system has a tendency to break the clot apart very quickly.”

 

Kirk’s eyes shadowed.  “So you’re saying Bones knew it wouldn’t work?” he asked, defeated.

 

“He’s saying that Leonard knew it _might_ work,” Christine clarified sternly, “and that even if it didn’t work for _long_ …..”

 

“That it had the potential to allow the Captain and I time to transport him to the Enterprise,” Spock filled in thoughtfully.

 

“Exactly,” Christine nodded firmly.

 

Kirk’s face warmed with a hint of a smile.  “Plan B?” he asked.

 

Christine bit her lip.  “More like Plan F,” she shrugged with a small smile, “but, as you well know Captain, in an emergency, every possibility counts.”

 

Kirk nodded in slow agreement.

 

Christine frowned as the monitor chimed with a flash of yellow.

 

“What is it?” Kirk demanded.

 

“A decrease in Leonard’s blood pressure, Captain,” M’Benga said calmly.  “But not an alarming one.  Christine is getting a medication to help correct it.”

 

Kirk looked back to see that Christine had indeed already slipped out of the room.

 

She reached the medication cabinet in the main room, pulling several vasoactive cartridges in quick succession, deep in thought until a shout jolted her upright.

 

“Hey Chris, toss Uhura a transfusion kit, will you?” Mara’s voice came from across the room.

 

Christine turned as Uhura jogged to her side, hands out for the kit – and actually _saw_ the room.  She had been so wrapped up in her task that she hadn’t even noticed that it was _filled_ with people.  Christine’s eyes swept the activity briefly before fixing Uhura with a knowing look.  “You put the word out, didn’t you?” she asked the communications officer.

 

“Of course I did,” Uhura replied.  “You’ve always told me that real blood is better than the synthetic…..and there are ninety-eight crewmembers aboard this ship with B+ blood,” she held up her bandaged arm with a soft smile, “who want to help.”

 

Pride, gratitude, and a host of other emotions washed over Christine.  “Nyota….” She whispered.

 

“I saw him come in, Chris,” Uhura’s eyes shone as she swallowed against the memory.  “Whatever _he_ doesn’t need, he can use to save someone else,” she said, firm in her future implication.

 

“Matthews, sit your O-negative ass over at Elise’s station,” Mara’s shout broke the moment.  She turned to Christine with a grin.  “Once Uhura put the word out, _everyone_ started coming down, McCoy’s match or not.  Sanchez is already cursing my name trying to prep all these units for long term storage!”

 

Christine shifted two cartridges to her right hand before pulling Uhura into a quick hug with her left.  “Thank you,” she said.  “I have to run,” she nodded at the medication, “but….. _thank you_.”

 

“Go,” Uhura waved her off with a warm smile before jogging back to Mara’s side.

 

M’Benga excused himself as Christine returned to the ICU, assuring Kirk that he would be close by.  Christine administered the hypo, noted the slight stabilization of the blood pressure, and reset the alarm parameters.

 

Spock suddenly shifted.  “Captain…..” he began.

 

Christine cocked her head, wondering if she had missed Kirk speak, until she realized that Spock knew his friend well enough that he heard the explosion of guilt coming a full five seconds before it actually came.

 

“Dammit Spock, I _never_ should have let him go without us,” Kirk’s hand cracked against the hard edge of the chair. 

 

“Our search of the area produced five deceased Shiforr warriors and scanners did not register any life forms other than ourselves,” Spock reminded Kirk.  “And I do not believe the Shiforra warrior would have returned to our location had Dr. McCoy not found his last victim alive.”

 

“If we had kept a continuous scan going….” Kirk insisted desperately.

 

“We still would not have reached the Doctor in time,” Spock said firmly.

 

“If I had gone _with_ him instead of just standing and thinking back there.....” Kirk’s fingers clenched.  “Spock, that injured Shiforri could just as easily have had a weapon also.  It shouldn’t have mattered that we found five of them dead already – it didn’t mean the sixth would be too.  I should have been there.”

 

“ _We_ should have been there,” Spock corrected with an almost gentle sternness.  “Jim,” he said quietly, “the Doctor’s safety is my responsibility as well.”  Christine swallowed at the loyalty blazing in Spock’s eyes.  “However,” he continued, “we cannot change what is past and it is illogical to waste energy on such ruminations.  While guilt may shape future procedure, it is of no use to the Doctor here,” he finished softly.

 

Kirk sagged, grasping Spock’s arm with his free hand.  “I know,” he sighed, squeezing Spock’s arm lightly.  “I….. _we…_ ” he corrected himself at Spock’s arched brow, “have known Bones for so long….I just feel like we should have seen it coming.”

 

“Jim, you are an excellent starship captain,” Spock said sincerely, “but you are not omniscient, nor are you expected to be.”

 

Kirk smiled weakly.  “Thanks Spock,” he said quietly, “but….”

 

“But _what_ , Captain?” Christine interrupted.  “You should have known that this self-sacrificing idiot would pick a fight with a trained Shiforr warrior with two spears and a grudge against his patient?!” she asked, her exasperated tone softened by the fondness in her eyes as she looked at McCoy.

 

Spock’s eyebrows shot into his hairline even as he dipped his head, a rueful acknowledgement of the truth in Christine’s outburst.  Kirk’s eyes lightened briefly as a surprised chuckle of agreement rumbled through his guilt.

 

“We all know Leonard wouldn’t leave a patient,” Christine pressed on, “but we can’t predict when that will get him into trouble – all we can do be there for him if it does and then help pick up the pieces.”  She gestured outside the ICU proudly.  “Over one hundred of your crewmen and women are out in sickbay right now donating blood either _for_ Leonard or in his honor – they’re doing what _they_ can.”  She turned back to Kirk and Spock, eyes serious once more.  “I’d love nothing more than to tell you he’s going to be fine, that’s he’s going to wake up and I’m going to yell at him for being an idiot and discover hypos for common sense and self-preservation to keep this from happening again….but you know I won’t lie to you.  Leonard is still with us right now, but the chances of him getting better rather than worse are very slim…..but until those chances go down to an absolute zero, what _you_ can do is be here for him.  He promised to try and fight for _you_ – now _you_ promise to fight for _him_.  Hope may not exactly be Plan A,” she smiled gently at Kirk, “but in this case, every possibility counts.”

 

Kirk’s face settled into determined strength, Spock lowering himself into a chair at his friends’ side, as they made their own promise with a familiar echo: to be there; to fight the encroaching darkness with hope. 

 

To whatever end.

 

***

 

Three days later, McCoy was the picture of rapid ICU deterioration, his body protesting the massive shock and resulting hypovolemia every way it could: liver failure, kidney failure, respiratory distress syndrome, necrotic bowel, two more cardiac arrests, another hemorrhage as the injured aorta weakened, and more hypotensive crises than Christine could count.  They had rushed him back to surgery, stopped the hemorrhage, re-strengthened the artery, and performed a desperate session of regeneration and reperfusion on the necrotic bowel, failing liver and kidneys, while pumping the first of another six pints of blood into McCoy’s overly weakened system.  He was on almost every piece of life support machinery sickbay had, an arsenal of IVs and hypos keeping an increasingly impossible chemical balance while they fought a sudden resurgence in what was proving to be a frighteningly resistant peritonitis. 

 

Christine found herself thankful that she had had the foresight to rally hope in Kirk and Spock three days ago, because she was rapidly losing hers.

 

The next day, they lost their fight against localization, and the peritonitis exploded into full-blown sepsis.

 

On the fifth day, Christine walked into ICU and didn’t see McCoy – all she could see were failing vital signs, dusky extremities, bloated, edematous skin weeping misplaced fluid…..a body she had seen many times before, one on the final spiral to death.

 

When she saw _death_ before she saw _McCoy_ ……that’s when the last vestiges of her hope shattered.

 

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that Kirk and Spock were breaking her heart for the fifth day in a row, flanking McCoy’s bed in a soul-crushing image of post-Minaran protectiveness, two silent guardians determined to take on death itself……because this was it.

 

This was the end.

 

Two sets of censuring eyes shot up and Christine found herself faced with the raw force of the very fight, the very hope she had helped instill.  It was as if Kirk and Spock could actually _hear_ that thought…..that the insinuation, the very thought alone, tainted their watch with an unacceptable profanity. 

 

Christine had seen a lot of miracles in her career, many of them aboard the Enterprise.  She had seen dying races blossom as the threat of plague was lifted by a last-minute cure; mothers convert out of lethal dysrhythmias at the sound of their child crying; claustrophobic crewmembers rush headlong into their fear at a cry for help deep within a Jeffries tube; patients hold onto life just long enough for loved ones to say goodbye, even when their bodies should have given out long ago.

 

Christine had tried to keep the numbing grief from her face and hands as she had worked on a steadily decompensating Leonard McCoy for the past five days.  Every time she walked into the room, Kirk and Spock looked to her for that next miracle, but she wouldn’t, she _couldn’t_ , lie to them.  All she could give them were the facts: cold, precise anatomical truths that were going to hurt no matter how simply or gently she explained them.  And every time she felt she shattered that hope, Kirk and Spock just seemed to turn right around, fight harder, and create more….not just for themselves, but enough for Christine and the crew as well.

 

Christine was still fighting for McCoy medically – she was using everything she had, but it hurt too much to hope right now, when she looked at the ravages of sepsis and traumatic injury and she knew in excruciatingly precise detail _exactly_ what was happening to McCoy’s body……but when Mr. Spock, logical, science-minded, Vulcan Spock, both verbalized understanding of the medical situation _and_ insisted that McCoy wasn’t ready to give up…..well, what could she do?   This was the Enterprise.  The ship had made a career out of miracles.  It survived on hope.

 

“He promised,” Kirk reminded her every morning.  “He’s still here.”

 

So were Kirk and Spock.

 

And so was she…..to whatever end.

 

So as long as they were all still there, the least she could do was try to borrow back some of that hope she had shared before ‘zero chance’ became a rapid reality.

 

So she hoped.

 

She hoped McCoy would rally; that he would defy medical odds and resume his place at the heart of the Enterprise; that they were skilled enough to see him through the next crisis; that Kirk and Spock’s unwavering dedication were enough; that a miracle could be created out of sheer love and refusal to acknowledge death.

 

And as she hoped, she worked.  She administered medications, adjusted titrations, performed preventative care, collaborated on changes and treatment options. 

 

For two more days, McCoy balanced just on the edge of death.  Sepsis was such a rare complication in the age of genetically engineered antibiotics and localized infectious material neutralizers – they were either able to prevent it or patients died before it could take root.  M’Benga scoured the literature and consulted with every specialist he and McCoy knew.  Rapidly reaching the last of an already meager list of last-ditch efforts, he wrote up another protocol.  Christine gathered the new drugs, stepped around Kirk and Spock’s hope, and administered her own.

 

Twelve hours later, McCoy appeared to rally.  His white cell count dropped several points.  His heart rate came down and his blood pressure came up.  Christine watched Kirk’s eyes brighten for the first time in days, even as she warned him that this could just be the final rally before the ultimate decline.

 

“He promised,” Kirk said again, lightly grasping McCoy’s swollen hand.  “That treatment was it Christine, I _feel_ it.”

 

Another twelve hours and the septic bacteria and damaging endotoxins were completely purged from McCoy’s body.  Christine’s own heart beat wildly even as she reminded Kirk that while that was good news, it wasn’t a miracle cure.  The damage still remained.

 

Two hours later, she reentered the room and her heart stopped all together.

 

Kirk was gripping McCoy’s hand tightly with his right hand while he swiped desperately at red-rimmed eyes with his left.  Spock’s eyes were hidden, head bowed.

 

Christine’s hand flew to her mouth, even as she had _known_ …..

 

….And then Kirk looked up at her.

 

And _grinned_.

 

“Sir?” she swallowed against the sudden surge in her chest.

 

Kirk squeezed McCoy’s hand gently and held it up for Christine to see.

 

Barely, just barely, McCoy was squeezing back.

 

Christine let out a choked breath as her heart began to dance.

 

McCoy’s chances still weren’t great, but they were better than they had been.

 

‘To whatever end’ suddenly held the promise of a beginning.

 

As Christine pushed herself forward towards an assessment she actually _wasn’t_ dreading, she took in the three men in front of her – Kirk’s openly shining eyes, Spock’s nearly palpable joy…..and looking down at the bed, even though the possibility still lingered, she found that she didn’t see death – not today.  Today she saw _McCoy_.

 

Her gaze lingered on the image.

 

Yes, she always knew it would end like this.

 

And it would.

 

Someday, it would.

 

But not today. 


End file.
